So, in talking to a colleague last night at a company party, she mentions that she's a deerhunter and loves hunting. And as a meat eater, I have no problem condoning slaughtering and eating excess Bambi's, although I can't fit "killing" and "sport" into the same box in my head. I mean, put out a salt lick, hay rick for them, tame them a little bit and cull the excess bucks. It's a chore to me, not a fun weekend or an achievement. Like when I worked at famous Gourmet Store and one of the owners used to proceed through the store proudly describing the dinner he was going to prepare that night, the thousand steps, the precious ingredients, and all of the store sycophants oohing and aaahing and I'm thinking "you self-important dickwad. Try putting dinner on the table EVERY night, on a tight budget and see how freaking exciting THAT is."

But I digress.

So whatever, Sheera, mighty-deerkiller, her company is paying for my drinks, so I put on my redneck hat and jolly along.

So, when I send her a thank you this morning for the invite, she sends me an e-mail back thanking me for the picture and with a picture of:

Her and the deer she killed last weekend. All headlolling, tongue hanging out, bloodspatter. Who, quite frankly, looks an awful lot like that picture of Percy in my icon, just with less white on the face and little spike antlers.

And now it's requiring every fiber of my being to not one-up her with a picture from Crappy Taxidermy...or better yet, have the Captain help me set up a gruesome scene of him dead in the yard with me posing triumphantly.